


Memories Like Water

by cheyennesunrise



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan is gone, but John is keeping him afloat. Abstract little oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories Like Water

**Author's Note:**

> Quick little stream-of-consciousness thing. Harold remembers Nathan and almost has a breakdown, but John brings him back. Implied Harold/Nathan and Harold/John.

_“I’m gonna go for a run. See you later, Finch.”_

John’s words shouldn’t have bothered him, but they did.

In an instant, Harold was there again, leaning against the railing at Battery Park, and Nathan was smiling at him and repeating John’s words.

_"I’m gonna go for a run, Harold. Want to join me?_

Harold had denied the request, turning instead to study the ferries and people and that tiny, ethereal dot that would somehow transform into the Statue of Liberty if you got close enough.

Nathan had shrugged, and laughed, and then he ran away.

_“See ya later, Harold.”_

Harold wanted to remember more, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He could hear the people milling about, but he mostly remembered the rain.

It wasn’t really rain, though, just a fine mist, the kind that made you just uncomfortable enough to seek shelter and wipe your eyeglasses on your sleeve.

Harold’s face was still wet.

He opened his eyes and blinked in the dim light of the Library. Nathan was gone, Reese was gone, and he was alone with his thought again, alone…

_“You should really get some exercise, Harold.”_

He could hear Nathan’s voice again, and it haunted him, like waves breaking on the Hudson, and he sighed.

“Nathan,” he cried, giving life to the name, “I tried.”

John had told him the same thing several years later, and he obliged, resorting to reading while doing push-ups under his desk.

John just had that effect on him.

John was there and Nathan was not. Nathan was mist, Nathan was water.

_“You should come to St. John’s sometime, Harold. You’d love it.”_

Harold shook the memory, but Nathan’s voice was still there, resonant and strong, faintly teasing but always familiar, always friendly.

_“I’m sure that they have a beachfront bookstore.”_

Harold grinned despite himself, but he shook his head, just as he had done all those years ago.

_“I’m sorry, Nathan. I can’t come.”_

Nathan had shrugged and patted his arm, and his hand lingered there.

_“Next time, Harold. It’s fine.”_

There never was a next time. Harold could hear the ocean in his ears, and it was screaming at him with all its might.

“I know! I know,” he said raggedly, weakly. He sagged against the desk and breathed.

In, out. In, out.

_“Is this what it feels like to drown?”_

What did Nathan feel? Could he breathe? Did he even have time to realize what was happening to him, to them?

Harold gasped and choked, fighting the dry, thin air in the Library, assuring himself that it was over, over.

Nathan was gone; he had left long ago. He took with him his voice, and his laugh, and the world seemed quiet, hollow.

Harold lowered himself to his chair and forced himself to cry.

His eyes produced no tears, and he screamed.

 

Nathan was water, he would always be water, flowing through Harold’s life, meandering through his thoughts, flowing, flowing.

Harold chased him away, and relented, flattening his palms against the desk.

He would continue, but he would not flow; he would drift.

Harold could see the shoreline, and he paddled helplessly against the cresting waves. He reached out a hand, grasping for a buoy, and he found one, solid and true and strong.

John pulled Harold from his reverie, taking him by the shoulders, whispering assurances and steadying him, grounding him.

Harold collapsed, but he did not drown. 

John was holding him above the surface, and Harold clung to him blindly, wrapping his arms around the other man as he gasped for breath.

“It’s okay, Harold,” John whispered, and that was something different, something new.

The waters were moving, and Harold was swimming with the current. He closed his eyes and shed a tear.

“Thank you, John.”


End file.
